Only two months. Two months until our tallest boy with the deep, deep voice walks across a stage for a diploma and a handshake and a switch of the tassel. Soon after, he'll turn 18.

I always thought I'd have this one last summer before college to savor him: his easy-going way, his dry humor, his running shoes by the door, his giant water bottle on the table. But, things are looking like he just might reel in the summer job he's been working to land for almost a year. Living quarters away from home are part of it. I'm so proud of him, so happy for him, so excited to see where he's going. And I'm just not sure where to put all the feelings.

So, I reach for the soil bucket. I gather seeds, spread the newsprint. The need to nurture soaks the soil. It plants, covers, tends. Tends toward hope and life and small things and large things. It tends the heart of a mama who wants that chubby-cheeked baby boy on her hip, who wants to cook the favorite food for his now long-legged body every night for the next sixty days, who wants to cheer from the rooftops for him, who wants to lie on his bed and cry.

I don't know how to do this next part of the parenting life. But I know about seeds and soil, water and warmth. I know about nurturing, and how much I'll need it.

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